CATS

Daily writing prompt

What are your favorite animals?

I think it’s clear to anyone who has followed me for any time that my favorite animals are cats. (Dogs and goats are tied for second place).

Why cats? First, because of all of their moods. My cats are silly, aloof, affectionate, grumpy, sleepy, and content. They remind me a lot of me in their variety. And they have no trouble telling me what mood they’re in.

Second, because they’re amusing. Whether doing zoomies, jumping into the bathtub until it starts filling up with water, or defiantly standing on a high surface, cats’ antics leave me chuckling. Sometimes they’re not so amusing, such as when they climb up a Christmas tree (who am I kidding? If they’re climbing up someone else’s Christmas tree, it’s hilarious), but for the most part cats are funny.

Third, because they’re beautiful. Even my chunky cat Chloe possesses a beauty that makes me envious. They flow, they slink, they’re smooth and powerful. (Except for Chucky, who lumbers and plunks).

Having three cats in the house has been a cornucopia of experiences. I can’t imagine being without cats. If I were, my house would be that much less comforting.

Recommending Cats

Daily writing prompt

What is good about having a pet?

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I have three cats at the current moment, and have had many cats over the years, so I feel like I can answer this authoritatively. The best thing about having cats is the companionship. They are furry, friendly little creatures who want to share your life with you. Sometimes. Right now they’re making themselves scarce, only to get particularly chummy when I’m in the middle of a project.

They also provide lots of humor. Chuckie, our big orange cat, entertains with his total cluelessness. Chloe (the black cat in this picture) is just weird. For example, she goes crazy when Richard sneezes, chattering and running about as if she needs reassurance that he has not released demons into the world.

The best thing about a cat, though, is that you can’t take them for granted. They’re there when they want to be, not necessarily when you want them to be. They’re autonomous creatures with their own agendas. So, when they want to spend time with you, you know they’re there because they want to be. Or because they want food. Or because you’re busy with something else — they’re perverse little creatures.

I’d definitely recommend a cat.

In Memory: Me-Me

Me-Me, my seventeen-year-old kitten, died yesterday afternoon. She had been aging for a while, going through what looked like a bout of feline senility, so it wasn’t unexpected.

We adopted her as a kitten from the neighbor’s. One afternoon, there was a knock on the door and my husband and I answered it to two little girls who wanted to know if we wanted a kitten because the local tom had killed all the male kittens in the litter and they wanted to save these kittens. I decided on the grey-and-white kitten, and we named her Me-Me, because she liked to be the center of my attention.

Meemerz was a one-person cat for much of the time, and that one person was me. She would hiss and bite Richard, until one day she warmed up to him and became our cat.

She was always a bit — flaky. Ditzy. Flighty. Spacy. Whatever word you choose to denote a cat who seems a little … vacant up there. She wasn’t cognitively impaired, just an airhead. Like she didn’t have a thought in the world. We imagined her saying things like “Why are clouds?” and “Food?”

This morning seems a little empty without my geriatric cat sitting on the couch.

Cats, Of Course

Daily writing prompt

Dogs or cats?

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I am a cat lover. Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs too. I will pet every dog I get a chance to pet, and yell “Look at the goggie” to my husband across a parking lot. But, as one of my cats (Chloe) is sitting in my lap while I type, it’s obvious that I prefer cats to dogs.

Cats have peculiar personalities. One might even say they’re little weirdos in fur suits. Me-Me tries to ingratiate herself to people in the bathroom. Chloe tries to lick faces. Pumpkin hisses at all the other cats, and Chucky is just breathtakingly brainless (he’s an orange cat; orange cat owners will know what I mean.)

Cats do not have a fanatical devotion to their owners. I do not deserve fanatical devotion, nor do I want it. It’s only smart for a cat to look upon me with a bit of skepticism. It shows discernment. [ppppppppppppppppppppppppp;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; (This is Chloe’s response to reading the above paragraph. Note the lack of fanatical devotion.)

My personality is mercurial, quirky, and at times a bit inscrutable. I’m a lot like a cat that way, so I think I will always get along best with cats.

Musing about the Rainbow Bridge

Right now, I’m sitting in bed coming down with something. A cold, the flu, my imagination — I’m not sure. I barely notice the clutter — the clothes racks that substitute for a closet, the pile of stuffed toys on the cedar chest, bins of summer clothes — but I do notice the round black-and-white cat who cleans herself at the foot of the bed. Stinkerbelle, after a long period of antisocial behavior, has settled into her second kittenhood at age 11, where she clings to me and occasionally cleans my face.

What does Stinkerbelle dream of? She’s a simple creature — she likely dreams of food. Lots of food. And enough petting that she actually gets tired of it. Maybe she dreams of playing, because her arthritic hips no longer will let her do so. They give her trouble merely walking, and jumping on the bed requires three tries now.

Maybe she contemplates the Rainbow Bridge. All pets go to the Rainbow Bridge when they die. When they cross the Bridge into the endless meadow, all their infirmities of life are somehow made irrelevant. They can run, they can play, they can see. The rain that bathes the plants somehow doesn’t drench their fur, so they can run in the raindrops.

At the Rainbow Bridge, they thrive until their owners come, and when we arrive, they remember us and escort us to the endless meadow. I wonder about the dogs and cats who were never adopted, and I’d like to think that some of us pet lovers would adopt them there.

Somehow, we owners think we’re going to Heaven or Hell and our pets think we’re going to the Rainbow Bridge to meet them. Maybe the Rainbow Bridge leads to Heaven. But remember — all pets go to heaven. Have we created in our imagination a better afterlife for pets than we have for ourselves?